I knocked back 36 hot toddies and ended up on a platform, hellbent on jumping in front of the next train, by PAUL GASCOIGNE. And why I really smashed up Glenn Hoddle’s room

by

While it’s generally a bad idea to drink brandy before a football game, I did it quite a few times when I was a professional player.

Fifteen minutes before kick-off, I’d grab my hip flask, gulp it down and then put it to one side.

It was my little ritual, my go-to comfort. I absolutely loved that feeling – the slight burn as it went down, then the warmth spreading through me. It calmed my anxieties, but also gave me this amazing energy, like a little spark inside. It just made everything feel… manageable, and exciting all at once.

I got into the habit after joining Glasgow Rangers from the Italian side Lazio in July 1995.

The staff didn’t mention it, likely because it wasn’t affecting how well I was doing. Actually, there was even a time when someone told me to keep doing it.

In November 1996, my team and I played Hearts in the Scottish League Cup final, which was held at Celtic’s stadium in Glasgow. I personally didn’t play very well in the first half of the game.

The cup final really got to me, and I was so anxious that at halftime, I was arguing with my teammate, Ally McCoist, instead of paying attention to our manager, Walter Smith, who had asked me to calm down.

Suddenly, Walter grabbed me and held me against the wall. I immediately became quiet, and his assistant, Archie Knox, asked if I had been drinking brandy.

‘No, I haven’t,’ I replied.

‘Well, f*****g go and get one!’ he said.

I said sorry to Coisty, then went straight into the director’s box, still in my sweaty uniform. I asked the bartender for a very strong brandy, drank it quickly in front of everyone, and went back to thank Archie.

‘Get out there and do the business,’ he said.

I scored two great goals that won us the cup, finishing the game with a final score of 4-3. Afterwards, my teammates kept their distance while I celebrated – I think they were put off by the smell of alcohol on me!

By the time I left Rangers in March 1998, I was drinking heavily, almost every night. It was my way of coping with the difficulties and stress I was facing in my personal life.

I was going through a divorce, and even though Sheryl and I had shared so much, I was heartbroken.

Beyond being the mother of my two-year-old son, Regan, she’s always been the most important person in my life and my only serious long-term partner. Because of everything going on, I wasn’t playing my best. When our manager, Walter Smith, left, he told me the new manager, Dick Advocaat, likely wouldn’t be counting on me. That’s why I transferred to Middlesbrough for £3.45 million.

Honestly, my main focus at the time was getting the team promoted back to the Premier League – and thankfully, we did it for the 1998-99 season! I was also working really hard to get back to my best physically, because I was determined to be fit for the 1998 World Cup.

I was in great shape, but both my club managers, Terry Venables at Tottenham and Walter Smith at Rangers, warned me about Glenn Hoddle. He’d become the England manager in 1996 after Terry Venables left the position.

‘He’ll want to make a name for himself,’ they warned.

As expected, I didn’t have a great relationship with Hoddle, largely because he often talked to us players as if we were children.

I’ll never forget when our coach brought in this French nutritionist to teach us how to chew! It sounds silly, but we all had to really focus on *how* we ate. It was hilarious, and we ended up shouting his motto – ‘Chew to Win!’ – all the time. It really became our thing.

Hoddle also attempted to instruct us on stretching, which was odd given he was working with seasoned professionals who understood their own bodies. Even stranger, he made us all visit his spiritual healer, Eileen Drewery.

Hoddle thought she would be able to cure me of my compulsion to drink and smoke.

I was with her almost an hour, while she gently laid her hands on my head and body.

She told me I was battling inner struggles and that she wanted to help me overcome them. When she dramatically opened the window as if to release these struggles, I unexpectedly burst into laughter.

Eileen seemed unimpressed and quickly asked me to leave, also requesting that I skip having a cigarette or a beer that evening.

I said okay, but as I left, I looked back and saw her smoking a cigarette through the window.

‘What a load of rubbish,’ I thought. ‘I’m not listening to her.’

Even though I had some doubts about the manager, Hoddle, my performance on the field was strong. I’d played in all the qualifying matches for the 1998 World Cup and contributed to England reaching the tournament, so I felt certain I’d be selected for the final squad.

Unfortunately, there were a few incidents in the lead-up that didn’t reflect well on me.

While on Chris Evans’ TFI Friday show that May, the audience was so supportive, offering me cigarettes, that I lit up and put three in my mouth.

We grabbed a few beers afterwards, just a casual drink with a friend. On the way back to Chris’s place around 1:30 AM, I decided to get a kebab.

Someone snapped a photo of me enjoying a chicken kebab – which, honestly, was a good source of protein for my intense training – and the next day, the tabloids were full of stories criticizing my dedication to fitness and calling for me to be removed from the team.

It didn’t look good being seen with Chris and another friend, Rod Stewart, and it happened more than once. To make matters worse, the day we traveled to the England team’s training camp in La Manga, Spain, happened to be my birthday.

I’d had a bit to drink and missed the bus to the airport by ten minutes. We still managed to catch our flight, but Glenn Hoddle was furious, and it was obvious to everyone.

We played a friendly match against Belgium two days later, but I unfortunately suffered a dead leg after playing for about 50 minutes and had to leave the game. The match ended in a 0-0 draw, and we ultimately lost in a penalty shootout.

I could tell Hoddle was really worried when I walked over to him with a limp. He explained how important it was for me to be healthy for the upcoming matches in France, saying the team couldn’t succeed without me. He pleaded with me to be cautious and take care of myself.

He was really hoping I’d be fit to play, and I honestly thought I’d be selected. I had no reason to think otherwise, but then I saw a group of players lined up outside Hoddle’s door a couple of days after the match against Belgium.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked. ‘Standing in a queue, like kids?’

‘We’ve been asked to go to see him, one after another, to find out if we’re in,’ one said.

I said angrily, “How rude of him!” He’s treating us like kids and won’t even bother to explain what’s going on. I refuse to just sit here and wait.”

I walked into a nearby room and found Glenn Roeder, a friend I’d known from my time at Newcastle United—he was now coaching England—sitting with John Gorman, the assistant manager.

“Well?” I pressed. “Am I on the team or not?” Glenn’s expression instantly revealed the answer – I hadn’t been selected for the England squad, and I wouldn’t be joining the others in France.

I’d never experienced such a mix of intense anger and sadness as I tried to understand what was happening. At 31 years old, I knew my chances of ever playing in another World Cup were practically gone.

‘That absolute b*****d,’ I thought to myself.

Being left out of the team wasn’t the biggest issue, but the way Glenn Hoddle did it really bothered me. He’d made me think I was definitely going to be included, then he made all of us wait nervously to hear from him individually. I was furious and immediately went to his room to confront him.

‘Calm down,’ he told me. ‘Let’s just talk.’

‘No!’ I shouted.

I flew into a furious rage and completely wrecked his room, breaking his TV and throwing lamps everywhere. I was determined to destroy everything. I managed to stop myself from hitting him, but I really wanted to.

Thankfully, David Seaman and Paul Ince managed to stop me before I could do any more harm. It’s hard to say how much worse things might have gotten if they hadn’t intervened.

They gave me Valium to help me relax and told me to go to my room, but once I was alone, I realized I hadn’t been selected for the team, and all I could think about was going home.

I was crying on the flight back, constantly replaying the words of Walter Smith and Terry Venables in my head. They had warned me that Glenn Hoddle was focused on building his own reputation.

Those words had definitely come back to haunt me.

I ended up back at Sheryl’s house in Hertfordshire, completely overwhelmed, even though she and I were getting divorced. I needed to be with my family, but everything felt chaotic both at home and in my career. The house was surrounded by media – dozens of TV crews and photographers had set up camp on the road.

We attempted to protect Regan, but the camera flashes were directly in his eyes, causing him to scream loudly.

I remember standing in the garage, bawling my eyes out. I was in pieces.

The whole country was caught up in World Cup excitement, but I really needed a break from it all. So, I packed up the family and a few friends and we headed to Miami for a getaway.

I wasn’t surprised few Americans were interested in the World Cup, and honestly, it gave me a reason to have a few drinks and try to take my mind off things. By the time I got back, the event was already finished.

About a month later, I received some devastating news. David Cheek, a close friend and cousin of my best friend Jimmy Gardner – who everyone called ‘Five Bellies’ – had unexpectedly passed away in his sleep. It turned out he’d died from alcohol poisoning after Jimmy, David, and I had gone out for the night in Newcastle.

Losing Davey in that way was too much for me to handle, and it led me to a dark place.

I hit a really dark patch and started self-medicating just to cope. I was drinking a lot – honestly, too much – and it got to the point where I’d lose entire nights. I was relying on alcohol and sleeping pills just to get through each day, and it was a terrible cycle.

By October, with a break in the Premier League schedule before the Euro 2000 qualifier against Bulgaria, I was really struggling. Glenn Hoddle hadn’t selected me for the national team, so I joined my Middlesbrough teammates for a four-day trip to Dublin. Ironically, having free time turned out to be a terrible idea, and the trip quickly became a four-day drinking spree.

I was so anxious about the flight home that I kept drinking to relax, and ended up having 36 hot toddies during the journey.

I somehow ended up on a train to Stevenage, even though I was supposed to be in Newcastle. I don’t remember any of the journey, only finding myself at Stevenage station, completely distraught and determined to step in front of an oncoming train.

I kept repeating to myself that I was a failure and that Sheryl and Regan would be happier if I wasn’t around.

As fate would have it, a worker at the station spotted me and walked across.

‘Are you OK, mate? What are you doing?’ he asked, gently.

‘I’m waiting for the next train,’ I sobbed. ‘I’m going to jump in front of it.’

‘The last train has already left the station,’ he replied.

‘For f***’s sake,’ I thought to myself. ‘I even get it wrong when I am trying to kill myself.’

I called Sheryl, completely overwhelmed and desperate. I told her, ‘Please, help me, I don’t know what to do. I just want to give up.’

She drove me back to Hanbury Manor, the place where we got married in 1996, and I booked a room at the hotel.

I’ll never forget it. The next morning, there was a knock at the door, and when I opened it, there was Bryan Robson – the Middlesbrough manager! It was incredible.

‘What the f*** are you doing here?’ I asked.

‘Sheryl phoned me,’ he said.

In retrospect, it turned out to be a really positive thing, and I appreciate Sheryl telling him how I was feeling.

He drove me to Marchwood Priory Hospital in Southampton, and I began my first stint in rehab. When I woke up four days later, I was completely disoriented and had no memory of how I got there.

My therapist informed me I was receiving treatment for both alcoholism and depression. I was heavily medicated to make me sleep and was under constant suicide watch.

After about a week, the man returned. A medic told me someone was outside my door and wanted to speak with me.

Honestly, I was just completely overwhelmed and needed space. When someone asked if people could come over, I snapped and said, ‘Please just tell them I don’t want company right now,’ though I definitely used much stronger language – I just wanted to be left alone.

I figured it was just someone wanting an autograph or to chat about football – something I really wasn’t up for. But my therapist kept encouraging me, and I finally gave in.

I was shocked to see Eric Clapton, one of the greatest musicians ever, standing at the foot of my bed.

‘Oh f***, hiya Eric,’ I managed to say. ‘I am sorry, mate.’

I was going through a really tough time, and Eric, who understood what it was like to struggle himself, was a true friend. He went above and beyond to lift my spirits and help me stay positive, always making sure I had something to keep my mind occupied. He really tried his best to support me through it all.

He showed me his guitar and said: ‘You can have this, Gazza, if you do 28 days in here.’

‘OK, then,’ I replied. ‘I’ll try.’

I only lasted 20 days at the Priory – just eight more days and I would have earned that guitar. I occasionally still think about it, but after three weeks, I was desperate to leave and couldn’t bring myself to admit I had a problem with alcohol.

All I wanted to do was get back to playing for Middlesbrough.

After leaving the Priory, I tried going to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, but I wasn’t able to maintain my sobriety or continue attending regularly.

When I transferred to Everton in July 2000, I was also struggling with injuries.

Depression set in when I was unable to play, which in turn led to me drinking more frequently.

I was stuck in a terrible pattern, and things felt like they were quickly getting worse. However, as I’ll explain in tomorrow’s Daily Mail, the most difficult part was yet to happen.

 

CHAOS AT 40,000FT! ENGLAND TRIP STARTED BADLY… THEN GOT WORSE

Ahead of Euro 96, we went on a tour of the Far East. From the start, things didn’t go to plan.

During the flight, I tapped a flight attendant to request a drink, and it unexpectedly led to a small argument.

The pilot announced he intended to land the plane in Russia and abandon us, which also resulted in the FA receiving a formal complaint about my conduct.

The return flight was terrible. I’d had a few drinks and drifted off to sleep, but was abruptly woken up by someone slapping me hard in the face. I was furious and demanded to know who had done it. When no one admitted to it, I lashed out, throwing cushions, hitting the TV screens, and kicking the seats in retaliation.

We were sitting on the upper level of the Cathay Pacific plane when a flight attendant politely asked us to be quieter.

‘F*** off,’ I told him. ‘Don’t you dare tell an England player what to do.’

Upon arrival, we discovered a £5,000 bill for two damaged TV screens, and the Football Association insisted the person responsible be removed from the team.

Our captain, Tony Adams, rallied the team and stated that if anyone was going to be forced off the squad, they would all leave together.

Not only that, the whole squad would share the bill for the smashed-up TVs.

Everyone agreed to share the blame – a concept we called ‘collective responsibility’ – and I really appreciated that Tony and the rest of the team supported it, even Alan Shearer, who had initially hit me.

This is an edited excerpt from *Eight* by Paul Gascoigne and Victoria Williams, available from Reach Sport on October 23rd for £22. Copyright Paul Gascoigne 2025. You can purchase a copy for £19.80 (offer ends October 25, 2025) at mailshop.co.uk/books or by calling 020 3176 2937. Free UK delivery on orders over £25.

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2025-10-13 03:38